I jogged over to Beli Most (White Bridge) this morning, tied Nikki’s leash to a park bench by the side of the river, and pulled out a sachet of bright yellow powdered potatoes.

I then started writing words with it on the river bank, for Diana Ali’s project about Victor Shklovskys’ concept of ‘defamiliarisation.’ (The project description called for paint or print-outs, but, after seeing my friends’ Carmen Montoya and Jeanne Jo’s writing in powdered sugar, I decided to go for a less permanent approach).

These were the words:

prelamanje pomena uzvracati: kisa
devet grad tempirati poigravati senecim piroda: bol

which literally means

refraction memory returning: rain

nine cities time toys nature: pain

however, serbian words are more specific than english words in many cases. For instance, whereas “returning” in english can mean giving back, coming back, getting back to the state of, etc, there are different serbian words for each of these meanings. So, the translation I chose is closer to this:

refraction memory coming back: rain

9 cities time (their) toy(ing) with nature: pain

Sort of. Anyway, I was writing these words, and Nikki, like the brilliant and wonderful dog he is, just sat happily behind the bench watching things float down the river. His bodyh was like the same size as the Bench, so it looked perfect. And every once in a while someone would stop me and ask what I was doing.

The first woman I showed the words written in English and Serbian on paper, and said “Victor Shklovsky.” She was either really psyched about his work (he was Russian) or pretended to be, because she instantly smiled and said “Dobro, Dobro” and patted me on the back. Then the inevitable question “Where are you from” (which I don’t knwo how to say but which I recognize when I hear it), and on hearing “New York,” another pat on the shoulders and “Dobro Dobro.”

A little boy then started shadowing me, peeking at me from different parts of the river. If I happened to see him as I was finishing a word, I would proudly exclaim the word to hiom “piroda!.” And he would get embarassed and scurry away, always to reappear at another part of the river.

A pair of women walked by and asked me what was up. I showed them the paper and gave them Victor Shklovskys’ name, expecting the “Dobro.” Instead, their hand motions and voices seemes to say “how are we supposed to know who that is?” And then, where are you from? One women didn’t seem to understand, but the other repeated “New York!” Big eyes, “Dobro!” But then the other woman caught on and asked me “New York? Gradski?” or somethign like that. And when I told her, “Da, New York” she got very annoyed. She wagged her finger at me and told me this was “Ni Dobro.” Ni Dobro at all! I smiled and showed her my bag of powdered potato, and she then smiled, exclaimed “Dobro!” and patted me on the the shoulders.

This is funnier when I tell it in person.

Once I’d finished the thing and took some photos, a man passed me by and asked me a question in Serbian as I was untying Nikki. “Victor Shklovsky!” I said.

“No,” he responded, in English, “Your Dog…”

“Ohhhhh. Samoyed,” I answered.

“Dobro,” he nodded.